


sometimes love is not enough.

by thegothandthegeek



Category: The Hunger Games
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-29
Updated: 2012-09-29
Packaged: 2017-11-15 06:03:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/523946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegothandthegeek/pseuds/thegothandthegeek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In another world, he could've been yours. // cato+clove.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sometimes love is not enough.

**Author's Note:**

> title from "born to die" by lana del ray.

**i.**

" _I'm Cato,"_ he says,  _"and I look forward to killing you one day."_

These are the first words you ever hear him say.  _(In District Two, you only say things like that when you plan on seeing someone in the Games, and it is one of the highest honors you could ever receive. Otherwise it is an act of great rebellion and that will not be tolerated, not anymore)._ You've been moved up to the intermediate class  _(finally)_ , and he's the only one who seems to have taken any interest in you. Maybe it's because they haven't seen what you can do with a knife.

Quickly, you discover that he is like you; he is so much stronger than the others, so much faster, so much more clever. You are only children, you are seven years old and he is nine and if you were able to love, you might fall in love with him now. But you aren't. So you don't.  _(But you have this unfamiliar sort of burning rage in your chest, and there's something about him that caught your attention and wouldn't let go)._

He becomes your best friend and your worst enemy and you still don't love him, you swear, you wouldn't even know how. More often than not, you're thinking of how wonderful it would feel to drive a blade through his warm skin, to spill his blood upon your hands, to bathe yourself in it.

When you're training on your own, he watches you, and sometimes he teaches you about stealth and survival. In return, you teach him about balance, and how to measure the weight between the blade and the base in his palm. You do not know why you show him these things. You do not know why he does the same.

_(You are seven years old and you are determined to solve him)._

**ii.**

Two years have passed and you are the best in your class, second-level advanced. You're too far ahead of the others to really consider them as competition, even though most of them are over five years older than you, and certainly bigger. Cato is the only real threat. He's almost as good with a sharp edge as you are, although his preference lies in swords as opposed to your knives.

You are young, but you flirt with danger and you toy with death, and you treasure the feeling of those very knives in your hand. The heaviness of them, the careful balance between life and not, and you want so badly to be alive but you can't be.  _(You cannot understand the concepts of playing, smiling, loving. You were born to fight and to win and that is all)._

You spend long hours sparring with him, before training and during training and sometimes even after training, as well. And this is where his weakness lies. You know every inch of his body by heart and soul, you know the way he shifts his weight on his feet, the way he moves and breathes and swings his swords at you, but he always misses.

_(You would think that it's because he's afraid of hurting you, but he knows what you can take, and it's not an emotion that either of you are familiar with. You're cookie-cutter Careers. You know nothing of anything besides determination and strength and anger)._

It should be a shame, that you are children and this is all you know, but this is all you know. You don't know anything but training and training and training and the rush of knowing that you can capture anything's life at any moment.

You don't know what love is, you tell yourself, and you don't know how it would feel, but you are certain that you wouldn't like it. You don't know, don't  _understand_  love, or happiness, or hope, and you don't need to.

You were born to fight and to win and to kill. You were born to die.

_(And so was he)._

**iii.**

Sometimes, they lock you away. They fear that you might kill too soon, that you might kill something besides the animals of all sorts that they provide for you in training. The walls here are white, and the floors are white, and the ceilings are white, and they take away all of your knives and chain your hands and you can't move why can't you just move.

Sometimes you scream for hours on end, because you know what they are doing. They are building your rage, bringing it to a simmering boil inside of you, and you never wanted to be so angry, but you never had a choice.  _(Your throat is raw by now, and even if you wanted to, you couldn't make a sound. Yes, you're angry. And you still want to kill. You want to kill all of them)._

And sometimes, Cato comes to visit you. There's no point in training with someone who has half of his skill, he'll say, with someone who would be too easy to defeat. One day, you find yourself sitting next to him on the white floor of your white room, up against one of the white walls, and he says something that you never expected him to say.

_(Really, he never says much of anything, and when he does, he's criticizing your technique. What you never notice is that he doesn't speak because he knows that if he does, he'll say something he's not entirely certain he wants you to know)._

You're wringing your hands together because they were feeling generous and took off the chains, and he's sitting completely still  _(like always)_  when the words break the easy silence. "They just want to make sure you think that you're under their control."

Your eyes turn to meet his, and they're strong and cold and eternally empty; only they're not. You can't exactly explain what's in them, or at least, you can't think of a sensible name for it, so you try your best to push it out of your mind and pretend that you never noticed  _(but you remember everything, Clove, and this is going to haunt you until the day you die)._

"They're afraid of what you can do."

He's still looking at you, until he takes one of your hands into his much larger ones, tracing over the scars wrapped around your wrists with his fingertips _(your endless escape attempts always fail and maybe you really are under their control)_. But you don't say a word because you know he's not finished.

"We were both born to kill, Clove. We were born to do nothing but kill and win, or die. We're Careers," he pauses, and you wonder what he's thinking of. You're clever, you know what your purpose is, you always have, but you've never had a problem with it. And you have no idea why he's saying all of this now.  _"We can't afford to love."_

You hate those words, because you don't understand them when you always do. You hate him, for saying these things that you wish weren't the truth, and for making you feel these things that you don't know how to feel. For understanding  _everything_ , when you could never.

And you long to feel his blood running through your fingers now, to feel the life draining out of his body so you can be as you're supposed to be, without feeling a single thing.  _(The only thing you can feel is anger, you don't know this but it's true, and just because you think you hate him doesn't mean that you really do. You don't know the difference because you were never taught how)._  But they've taken all of your blades and you're starting to go insane if you weren't already, because what is the point of you?

What's the point of breeding a picture perfect killer if you won't let her kill?

**iv.**

When you're fifteen years old, you fuck him for the first time. It's the night of the Reaping and it doesn't really matter who's drawn tomorrow, he's going into the arena and it's completely possible that you'll never see him again. It's his district-sworn duty, you remember, he's the best shot for this year.  _(But there are at least five worthy competitors going in with him and what if he never comes back, what if he never comes back)._  So you fuck him because this might be your last chance and you pretend it means nothing even though it means everything.

You slice tiny cuts in his shoulders with your fingernails, and he leaves bruises on your hips  _(when the stylists see them, they'll exchange glances when they think you aren't looking)_ , and by the time it ends, you can't stop shaking.

You run all the way home.

He has been your best friend for eight years now, your dearest enemy, and you must hate him because you don't know how to do anything else.

You cannot love. You do not know how. This means nothing, and he means nothing, and whatever sick, twisted kind of reality this is, you couldn't care less about any of it. This means nothing.

_(You repeat it like a mantra in the base of your skull until the words make you numb and you can't feel your fingers or your toes, and you should just kill him now while you have the chance)._

**v.**

It doesn't surprise you as much as you would expect when your name is drawn in the Reaping. They put you in over one hundred times  _(once for every time you screamed and once for every time you tried to get out before they said you could, and once just for being young and helpless even though you're no such thing, not anymore)_ , and if you were anybody else, one of the eighteen year olds would volunteer to go in your place. But you're not.

You are the best in your District, the most vicious, the most heartless.

_(And with good reason, this is how they've made you, and you are exactly what this District needs. A fighter. A killer. But you know that you aren't going to win, because you're really just so tired and you just want this to stop, you want everything to stop, please, just stop)._

It doesn't hit until he calls out those dreaded two words and he's standing right beside you on the stage that  _of course_  you aren't going to win. Your suffering is finally going to end. You are not coming out of that arena alive, because there is no way that he will let you.

_(Even if you do kill him, he will never let you go, and you will come out of the arena only to watch yourself rot. No, he is going to kill you because you are going to let him)._

**vi.**

His lips quickly become a familiar pressure against yours. On the train to the beloved Capitol, in the darkest corners of "survival training," in either bedroom and every inch of the hotel, it becomes the cruelest form of torture. A reminder that no matter what happens, one of you is going to die.  _You_  are going to die.  _(You are already dead)._

And in another world, he could've been yours.

_(All of this is such a joke. These people know nothing of survival, they only want a good show, but at least you finally get to kill without being held back, without being punished, without being told "not yet, Clove, your time will come,")_

Soon, you hate him so much that every breath you take is spent thinking of driving a knife straight into his heart.

You hate all of these people here, they could be so much more than their superficial "star-crossed lovers of District Twelve" and they  _must_  win because of their burning, passionate love.  _(But only one could come out on top, and neither of them will. They are going to lose everything, just like you)._ They love the tragedy, the poor girl's little sister, the poor baker's son who is going to die or lose the only girl he's ever loved. None of that matters.

You do not even know how to love, and you are constantly reminding yourself.

You

do

not

know

how.

_(This is as close as you can come)._

He whispers to you when he thinks you are sleeping, and you begin to enjoy the sound of his voice – something that sounds like home in the middle of a place you don't know, a warm light when you are about to be thrown into the dark. You've never enjoyed anything before.

You memorize the gentle planes of his face and you can still map out his entire body with your hands, and you know that if you do not kill him, he is going to be the death of you. But maybe you never really wanted to kill at all.

_(You were never given a choice, and it's far too late now)._

**vii.**

In the arena, things are different that you thought they'd be. You expected it to be constant, non-stop bloodshed and hunger and thirst. Mostly, it's just waiting.

You spend your days with your team of "allies,"  _(the Careers, really, plus lover boy – you can't wait to kill him)_  and you spend your nights curled into Cato once everyone else has fallen asleep.  _"How much longer?"_  you'll ask, and he always responds  _"Not long."_

Not long until you kill every single one of them. Not long until you have to chose which one of you kills the other. Not long until – what exactly comes afterwards?

But then, they change the rules. It's not for you, you know, but it will work just the same.

It is announced in the middle of the day, when he is in one place and you are in another, and you nearly knock him to the ground when you find him. You're whispering his name like it's the only word you've ever known, over and over until your lips reach his, and your fingertips dance across his chest just to make sure his heart is still beating and this is real, this is really happening.

" _Cato,"_ you breathe,  _"both of us, we can both go home."_

"I know," he kisses you more urgently now, smiling against your lips, and you know that they will never show this on television. These Games are a matter of perception, and the eyes are all staring at your knives, not your smiles, not your quiet laughs.  _(You hope that the Capitol sees this and knows that there are some things that they cannot breed out of you, not forever)._

"We're both going to live."

**iix.**

You die with his name on your lips and his face tattooed to the inside of your eyelids, and you just wish that you had been given the chance to be the star-crossed lovers of District Two. Because you never really wanted this, not really. You just wanted him.

" _Clove!"_ you can hear him screaming for you,  _"Clove!"_  but it's too late, and when he reaches you, you're gone. Just like that, you're gone. He sobs into your hair and he doesn't care who's watching, you're fucking dead and you're not coming back. He told you to spot and he would get the bag, but you couldn't resist the opportunity to run your blade through someone's heart  _(that's what the Games call for, right? Young killers?)_ and now you're  _dead_.

All because of that girl.

The girl on fire.

His lips are pressed against yours but they're cold, and it's all in vein, really,

you're

not

coming

back.

_(It's not like when they would take you away but they would always send you home eventually. They would always send you back for more training, more training with him, always him, but not this time. You're not coming back this time)._

And when he slices through Thresh with his sword, it's you he sees. It's your dying eyes he's looking into, it's your broken body he's staring at, and when he hears your cannon go off, he's running and running and running because you can't go yet, you can't leave him yet.

But you've been gone for hours now, and he's losing his mind waiting for you to return.

**ix.**

" _I'm already dead,"_  he screams, and there's rain pouring in sheets and his fingers are starting to go numb, and it's the best thing he's felt in a very, very long time.  _(It's only been one day but it seems like a lifetime, and he never wanted to live without you. He never could)._

The star-crossed lovers of District Twelve watch him with eyes full of pity and he deserves better, he deserves so much better. He deserves to spill their blood  _(Alice in Wonderland was always your favorite pre-Rebellion story, off with their heads)_ , to watch it go pink in the rain as the cannons go off and he is the Victor, he has won just like you knew he would.

He wants them to die.

He wants to kill them, two last kills before he can have everything in the world at his fingertips. But more than anything, he wants to die. He doesn't want to be the glorious Victor if you are not there with him. They changed the rules, both of you can win,  _"we can both win, Clove, both of us, please, wake up,"_  and they are staring at him like he's gone mad.

But how could they, when they let themselves fall into the Capitol's lies,  _the star-crossed lovers of District Twelve_  who didn't even know each other before two weeks ago. Who didn't even  _love_  each other until they were in front of the cameras. You saw them in training, you saw them at fancy dinners and Capitol parties, and they barely even spoke, barely even glanced at each other. They know nothing of love.  _(But then again, neither did you. Neither did he)._

They don't deserve that title, you know they don't, because you've loved him your entire life, haven't you? And this was always going to happen, there's no way that both of you could have lived until there was, and now you're both going to be dead. Maybe you'll meet him again here, wherever you are, and maybe you can finally be free.

These fragile children, they could never understand the kind of life you lead. If they were to lose these Games, well, they're lost. That's all they are, the two kids from District Twelve who lost the Hunger Games, and oh, the tragedy, her poor baby sister, his poor parents. But you, the Careers, if you lose, you are  _nothing_. You become nothing.

" _I didn't realize at first, but now I do."_

You are raised to do nothing but this, and it becomes you. You became your knives. Cato became his swords. And sooner than not, you'll both be nothing at all. Because the Capitol doesn't like killers, even though that's exactly what they are in the end, they like "star-crossed lovers," and sweet little baby girls and boys, and kids who are good at hunting or gathering or camouflage or being clever and basically everyone whose skills don't lie in murder. But yours do, and it's not your fault.

And as the skin is being peeled from his bones, he is silently repeating your name, willing himself to find you somehow, over and over and over  _(Clove Clove Clove please Clove)_ , and the only thing that actually manages to make it outside is a broken  _"please."_

Please.

The girl on fire is merciful, and your bloodlust for her is relieved only by the fact that maybe she can end this, maybe she can make the world safe for your baby brother and sister and people like you who were never given a shot to be something different. If you couldn't win, you want it to be her.  _(She will become the spark that lights a revolution – the girl on fire. She will become the Mockingjay, and she will save everyone)._

She sends Cato after you into the abyss, and the instant the last arrow is fired, you -


End file.
